Sweeter
by newcreature
Summary: a challenge stemming from a textbased RPG storyline involving everyone's favourite psychic and an unsuspecting bartender.  limey.  hetero.


_A/N: I don't own Trigun. Yet._

_Dedicated (and slight homage) to SpicyObsession, who thinks I'm mean. Inspiration to ReadingWhiz89, who made Legato a sex machine. Thanks to the hot and sticky sweet Laihiriel, who beta'd, and themis56, just for being always and forever the bestest wife in the world._

_Goddamncreepyprettyboyfussy__richbastard, _Miki thinks as she returns to the bar with the man's empty glass. He's the last customer of the night, and as such, he's automatically unwelcome. Her wizened, demanding boss had taken to letting her close the bar alone a couple weeks ago, without an explanation. Certainly she'd never done anything in the past to merit such trust. And tonight she doesn't feel so good. Tired, sore. It had been a long night last night too.

Carelessly tossing the dirty glass in the sudsy mess that was the bar sink, she reaches for another. _Sweeter, he wants it sweeter._ And the thing was, most customers who asked for it "sweeter" would say it with a sneer--snide, insinuating. They'd give her a look, maybe make a grab for her ass, and badmouth her when she made them look stupid in front of their friends. It was the same thing, night after night, day after day. But this guy—this guy was different. One guy good-looking enough to maybe not get the evil eye, and he had to be the _one customer_ who Really Just Wanted It Sweeter.

Sighing, she pours the kiwi liqueur (_what the hell is a kiwi anyway?_) into the bottom of the glass. Then the vanilla ice cream. She'd tried to talk Robby (her boss) out of these complicated-ass drinks on the menu. No one ever ordered them and they took too long to make when someone did. He'd refused. He usually ignored her suggestions. Miki didn't take it personally. He ignored everything. _More freaking ice cream, here you go asshole, two scoops._ Next the lime soda. Then the rum. Lots and lots of rum. A pretty slice of lime on top for the wealthy-looking (_good-looking) _guy. After all, maybe he'll give her a decent tip. If it's sweet enough.

Pushing the stringy hair from her forehead, Miki stalks over to the table in the far back of the room. The man there really _does _creep her out. She isn't sure why. She had learned long ago not to dwell on these things.

"Here." She sets the drink in front of him with a flourish that's clearly mocking. Her voice is hoarse, throat dry. Like she'd been sleeping with her mouth open. _Damn cigarettes. _"Sweeter." The word was flat.

He smiles at her, perfect teeth flashing in the dim light of the bar.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

_Christ._ She spins around, walks back to the bar. Doesn't go behind it this time. What was the point? The place was empty for some reason. Usually this time of night she had at least two or three stragglers, but now there is only Mr. Sexy Sweet Tooth over there sucking down his Lorenzato, whatever the fuck _that_ name means.

She perches on one of the stools, swiveling it slightly to the left, watching her customer in the mirror out of the side of her eye. He takes a tentative, almost delicate sip, smiles like he knows she's watching although he never so much as glances her way, and takes a bigger one. Good. She isn't going to make the drink again, no matter what sort of tipper he is. Miki doesn't have the patience for it.

The whiskey is where it always is, next to the small pail of limes. Stupid place for whiskey. Better place for tequila. Miki pours herself a glass with a practiced turn of the wrist. No ice or water to cut it, thank you very much. The dark amber disappears down her throat in seconds, and she pours herself another, daring her conscience to speak up. It doesn't. After all, who can complain? Quitting time and one lousy client. Miki lights a cigarette.

The man is entirely out of place here. Everything about him screams money, she thinks. Well-dressed, casual about it though, nice coat. Creepy ornamentation, but she's used to the bourgeoisie attempting to stand out anyway they can. Doesn't really bother her. She shrugs unconsciously, dismissing the spikes and skull as signs of immaturity. Every guy was immature. Every single one. One of the reasons … well, she won't think about that now.

His hair is…different. She likes it, she decides. It's another pathetic attempt, obviously, to scream "Look at me! I'm not like you!" but he wears the strong indigo colour like it's his own. Even if it's not. The eyes are knowing. Maybe that's what makes him creepy, she decides. Those eyes, the way they'd looked at her. When he first walked in, they had with just a glance sucked her in and dismissed her. With some guys it would have pissed her off. With this one, she felt her heart speed up, a chill slide up her spine. His eyes were creepy. Yeah.

Still, he is handsome. Ha, she laughs to herself, finishing the second dosage of her favourite medicine. Forget handsome. Too nice a word. The guy's fucking hot. _Crazy_ hot. Something about him is untouchable and that makes her want it. Want to smash something over his head or rip off his clothes, she can't decide which. He hadn't paid her any attention at all, and maybe that made it worse. She'd already lamented the fact that no one worthwhile ever stepped into her bar. (_What about Oliver?)_

She isn't going to think about that, so she returns her attention to the man in the mirror, not bothering to hide her appraisal anymore. _What's he gonna do, charge me?_ Nice lips. Thin but sensual. Something else going on there, too. Something else disturbing that she can't put her finger on.

As if he has read her mind, the man's long, strangely pointed tongue slides out of his mouth, slowly, licking some froth from his upper lip. Very slowly.

_That would have been nice if he'd done it on purpose._ Sneering at her reflection silently, Miki looks at herself then. Plain. Boring. Angular. Skinny. She's a bartender. Her present can be summed up by an occupation, her history with a sigh. The trivia of her life might fill half a page. Her cool eyes flick back to the customer in the mirror. Over her shoulder, already finishing up the last drops of the sugary drink. He has a story, she'd bet. One for more than a page. Not that she cares. People talked enough over drinks, more than she ever wanted to know. It had done wonders for killing her curiosity, working in this dump.

He turns his head, looking into the mirror and catching her eyes there. His are clear. Beautiful. Uninterested. _Damn._

Miki pulls her ass off the chair. Maybe now she can close the place? She walks over to him, trying to figure out why this one stranger's lack of attention bothers her. It isn't typical, that's for sure. It was almost…almost like he _does _know her. Or should. He looks at her like that. Like she has absolutely no secrets from him and never could. It is a superior look, and it's annoying. She swipes up his glass, feeling like she's done this way too many times before.

"Finished?"

"Another?"

She runs a hand through her short hair, exasperated. What kind of person wants to sit in an empty bar and drink glorified alcoholic milkshakes with a waitress who just wants to get the hell home? The thought stops her though. What is she getting home to? Empty apartment (_since __**she**__ left_), dirty dishes (_so what if I'm a slob_), and bed that is too fucking big for one person.

"You know we're closed right?" She tries a smile on him, although they are rare for her. The expression doesn't sit comfortably on her lips, exactly. Maybe he _would_ tip well. Hope springs eternal, right? "One more, though, OK."

His voice, when he speaks this time, flows over her like sex. The sound makes her want to stretch beneath it, basking in its music. It _hurts_ it's so intimate. "Shall I go?"

It doesn't sound like a customer asking to leave the bar, it sounds like a lover asking her if she needs some alone time. _How does he __**do **__that? _"No. It's fine." _Fine as in you're a pain in my ass but looking at you is not exactly bothering me so ok one more then you're out on your perfectly-formed ass, sweetheart._

She uses the same glass, not bothering to rinse it. Liqueur, ice cream, rum, soda. No lime this time. Over to the table, setting it down. Part of her wants to ask why he's here, what the hell a grown man is doing drinking a cheerleader's cocktail.

She doesn't ask.

"Here you go. Last one." She isn't apologetic. "Closing time, you know."

That cold smile again. Those heated eyes again. Suddenly Miki feels like she would probably make this freak drinks all night if he keeps looking at her like that. _Jesus what's the matter with me?_ The guy says nothing at first, takes a sip, holding her gaze the whole time.

"I already offered to leave."

The sybaritic voice is matter-of-fact, and, dammit, it's true. He had. And she had decided she had nothing else to do and so now she looks like an idiot, or a bitch. Or maybe both. Suddenly, viciously, she wants to throw this guy off-balance. He has screwed up her night, why shouldn't she do the same? This guy isn't used to drinking a lot, or he wouldn't have been ordering sugar in a glass. That much is obvious. So if he's trying to get drunk, he's doing a piss-poor job of it. Miki's a bartender; she knows what's going on here. Tilting her head slightly, her gray eyes contemplate him, ignoring the weak flutter in her stomach. Then her hardened attitude forces the magic words out in just that right, flippant tone. "Why'd she leave you?"

Oh yeah, that gets a reaction. Her customer sets down the fluted glass and looks at her, one eyebrow raised, almost as if he's surprised to hear something that isn't in the script.

It makes him look even more edible, and Miki deflects her impure thought with another jab. She's got the upper hand now, she thinks. Not going to relinquish it yet. "Or was it a he?"

Yeah, this guy is too pretty for women. She should have seen it before. The eyebrow climbs higher, and she feels she's hit the target. Still the man is silent. She decides to be nicer again. After all, she has her result. Mr. Porcelain Perfect Face has shown he isn't made of stone.

"Not my business. Just…(_curious, horny, mean)_ bored, I guess. You don't uh….look the type to be drinking alone."

Those lambent eyes again. Like he knows exactly why she's asked. Exactly how spiteful she is. But instead of hurt or disappointment, their yellow gleams with something sinister. Suddenly Miki is reminded of a desert wolf. She's messed up. _There goes the fucking tip. _She is about to mumble an insincere apology and return to the bar when he speaks again.

"Both," the stranger gives her a long, almost reproachful look. "…I suppose you could say."

Ah great. Bi. Open minds are more fun. Miki didn't smile, but she realizes she is warming to him more than she wants to. Her stomach is clenching with small eruptions as if she was a teenager, and there is a definite, almost chafing throb originating somewhere lower that is both pleasant and pointless. But…what do we have here? He looks _interested_. _Finally_.

Miki isn't the type to offer empty condolences, and she isn't really sorry to find out he is single. Available. Rebounds are easy. She could use something easy right about now. But that's probably not smart…_Been down that road before…_

"Their loss, right?"

She turns her back to him, starts to walk away after her trite response. Something halts her steps. She isn't going to go back to continue that pointless conversation. She _isn't. _She's smarter than this, really. Hot, heartbroken, hardbody good for one night only. Expiration: Tomorrow morning. Maybe sooner. Sure. Yeah. Sure. She's interested. _Who wouldn't be?_ But some instinct is making her walk away, even while the heat of her skin, the ache in her stomach, the sudden uncomfortable tightness of her clothes makes her want to go back. But this man with the sugar addiction and attention-seeking way of dressing, with the rebound potential and way of speaking that makes her want to get naked and do unspeakable things—he's Bad News. She is positive.

A word floats over to her ears, sliding into them like a caress.

"Mine."

Yeah. Definitely Bad News. She isn't going to comfort anyone, if that's what he wants. She looks over her shoulder at the blue-topped head, hair falling over one side in elegant disorder. Smirking in a way she's perfected over the years. Uncaring. "If you say so."

Back to the bar. Back to the stool. Spinning lazily, avoid his eyes, avoid those eyes_, those crystallized gold eyes that are dissecting me and swallowing me every time I meet them._

While he drinks the "Last" drink, Miki examines her fingernails and tries to talk herself out of any further conversation contact or interaction with this customer. She is already acting weird. She recognizes it, and doesn't understand it. It isn't just the drinks she's had. Guys don't do this to her. Especially high-maintenance out-of-her-league guys. Whatever he's selling, she can't afford it.

But she doesn't have a choice. With an almost masochistic reluctance, Miki drags her eyes up again to the mirror that has become their message board. He is watching her.

_Jesus Christ I'm wet._

That admission is not beneficial to her situation. _Why am I resisting this so hard? _She has no idea. A simple, uncomplicated, one night stand. What was the harm? He is hot (_vulnerable)_. He doesn't even know her name.

"_Miki." _The syllables sound somewhere deep within her; her name has never dripped with such meaning. _That _gets her attention. _**My**_ _thoughts. __**His**__ voice._

In seconds she is back at the little round table, glaring at this bastard. What game is he playing at?

"Did you say something?"

"I did not speak."

For some reason, she had expected a different answer. No matter how stupid the idea. Of course he hadn't said anything. This guy is affecting her, making her act like a lunatic just because she hasn't been laid in over a year and he happens to be pretty to look at. Disgusting. She is an adult. There's nothing to this shit. No games, no pretense. Sure, maybe he's a lousy lay. Maybe that's why his looks couldn't keep his lovers around. _Only one way to find out_, Miki thinks equivocally.

She sits down across from him, straddling the chair with a purpose.

His glass is empty again. Small trickles of condensation are starting to melt down the sides onto the table. She watches them, measuring the passage of time by the manic drops crashing silently onto the fake wood. They both say nothing, and Miki's thoughts race furiously. Does she _really_ want to do this? She rehearses come-ons, lines, in her head. None of them work. He is probably better than that. _She _is better than that.

"No lines."

It comes out before she can stop herself, but she doesn't really regret it. Her eyes slide reluctantly to his, but when she arrives there, she holds his even stare. She thinks for a minute he will think she's a bit loony, but he seems to know exactly what she is thinking. That mellifluous voice echoes hers once more in agreement, his slightly pointy chin dipping once in a minute nod.

"No lines."

She should question his understanding, she knows. She should stop this right now. But she doesn't want to. There is something here now. They have come to an agreement, what was barely offered has already been accepted, but she can't help one question from escaping.

"Why?"

Again, he answers the question, which could have meant any number of things, exactly the way she wants him to.

"You are nothing like her." He smiles again, the look strange on his face this time, almost embarrassed. "Or him."

It shouldn't make sense, but it does. Fine. Miki leans over the table, having a vague idea that she is going to kiss this complete stranger and not really knowing how or why she's gotten into this situation. It isn't that she minds making the first move. It isn't even that she isn't even sure she wants to do this. It is just hard to think. Hard to do anything but what it seems she _must_ do.

Halfway across the table, his hand comes up, long, gloved fingers wrapping around her jaw as he stops her.

"No."

She is confused, pissed. Hadn't they just…?

The thought is cut short as the man stands, suddenly towering over her. _I'm not that short…_Steely hands yank her to her feet. Too surprised to protest, Miki staggers just before he slams her hard against the wall. Her shoulder blades dig into the sandstone, her neck already hurting from the force of his actions. _Oh shit…_

The long white leather coat was already off. _When did he do that? _Miki tries to recover, to take some control of the situation. This isn't just his party, after all. Her hands reach for his chest, face, anything. It shouldn't be hard to do, with his body pressed so hard against her, but it is. Her fingertips brush against constricted muscles and try to find a place to hang on.

She'd been wrong about him. Not a rebound fuck. A revenge fuck, obviously. If the enraged force of his fingers isn't hint enough, the fact that he hasn't kissed her—let her kiss him, rather—is a dead giveaway. This isn't going to be about sex, and for a second Miki considers calling it off, unaware she would be powerless to do so. It isn't what she'd expected, but as the convex ridge in his pants digs enticingly against the inset of her thigh, Miki pushes back. He might _want_ to scare her, rape her even, but she is nobody's victim—doesn't play that way.

To prove her point, she tries to find his lips again, her hands pressing into the heated sides of his face, the marble feel of his skin smooth enough for her to believe no razor has ever touched it. He twists away, ignoring her, his breath coming harder, the darkness magnifying the sound. Miki retaliates instinctively, feeling his pulse throbbing against hers, forcing their bodies and faces still closer. Fingers grope, thrust beneath clothes, around the bony angles of hips, the solid heat of his abdomen. Pulling and pressing together. Lower. Her skin feels like it had been scraped tender, touch her only sense.

There was a sick kind of rapture about his violence. She had wanted him to snap, and the loss of control she had hoped was imminent is now in progress. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she pushes up against the wall and wraps her long legs around his waist. If she digs her nails in to his back a little harder than necessary for support, what is he going to do about it? _Probably like it. _It seems she's guessed right, as she feels him stiffen even more, the promising length of him flexing against her.

His hands are no more gentle than hers, but it is a rare sort of intensity—one that lacks passion. She still burns, the closeness of his body enough to make everything restless and eager. Her belt is expertly undone, her thin blue shirt torn away from her sides. Goosebumps race across her arms as she clutches two handfuls of the black material covering his chest and pulls hard. The tavern is by design tenebrous, which make her anonymous partner nothing more than a threatening shadow. But as she moves her arms up, removing his shirt, the paleness of him almost shines against the darkness, incandescent and strange. The whisper and rustles of discarded clothing mingle with their uneven breathing, accompanied by the sound of flesh against flesh, sweat now their primary lubricant.

Like a pornographic chess game, it is his move now. As he shoves his hands into her tight jeans, rough and testing, she lifts her hips for him. And while he is distracted by the welcoming motion, she leans in again, daring. Her lips find, graze his, the slight contact dangerous, and Miki knows it. His beautiful eyes narrow, and he roughly pushes her knees apart with his thigh. Then he punishes her with his fingers. That wave of erotic sensation that always accompanies the first entrance washes over her, and she gasps. Her head falls against his shoulder, and she tries to struggle against her own reaction. But his touch has ruined her, and he quickly ups the ante. Two fingers now, then three; no time to adjust or shift against him. They drive inside her wetness, parting her cruelly. She is ready, no question, but this position makes it decidedly uncomfortable. Her thighs jerk around his waist to improve the angle, and she curses as he forces himself deeper, the savagery of his movements only frustrating her. Miki tries to move her body slowly away and back, the sensual circle one way she knows she can accommodate the intrusion. But when she tries to withdraw, his body moves with her, holding her prisoner as her insides tighten and smooth his passage.

He smiles, the ivory teeth looking more feral in the shadows. There is a moment's hesitation in Miki's mind, even in the position she has willingly placed herself. Impaled on a stranger's hand, held up precariously by a wall and the strength of her own arms. _More than two drinks would've helped._

Still, she won't complain. She'd wanted him to want her, to take her, to snap. And now, as she feels his other hand unbuttoning her pants, she's gotten what she'd wished for. An instinctive thrill is already building deep in her belly at the pressure from his body, his hands, and at knowing what is coming. As he finishes at her fly, his thin fingers withdraw, and he rubs them between her legs, along the already damp material covering her thighs. She lowers her feet to the ground, stifling a groan from the unexpected pain. _He can take off his own damn pants._ She watches his face, and he stares back.

As if making a snap decision, perhaps realizing what he'd been protecting had already been lost, the man lowers his lips to hers, perilously close to touching, and he speaks. The words are different than how he'd spoken earlier, now having the tone of rehearsed speech or something he is required to say.

"Why do you want this?"

Miki's first instinct is to say "Same reason you do, asshole," but she bites her lip instead. In truth, she isn't sure she _does _want this anymore. He likes hurting people. She can tell. It is that creepy thing about him before that she hadn't been able to put her finger on. And she isn't normally that kinky. So does she have an answer for him? Not really.

"I don't know."

The words surprise her, but she supposes they are true. She realizes then she _does_ want it. Maybe she needs a little revenge fuck herself. Revenge against the World In General. And if it hurts, well, she'll hurt him back.

In response, his mouth bears down against hers, and she sighs at the long-awaited contact. The stranger's oppressive lips hold hers open as he drinks from her. He tastes like pain, nothing sweet or welcoming inside. It is Miki that breaks the kiss, her eyes saying what he had already known. His upper lip curls unpleasantly, and the look in his eyes tells her he hadn't enjoyed it anymore than she. Instead, his hands move to her chest, jamming her bra above her breasts, the underwire gouging into her skin. The small nipples topping her breasts are excruciatingly hard, pleading for his touch. Her ribs stick out, ridged against her skin, her pants already halfway down her boyish hips. Arching her back slightly, teasing her own body with a achingly brief brush against his chest, Miki lets go of her revenge fuck and quickly undoes the clasp of her bra. The flimsy material drops to the floor, already forgotten as he is stroking her.

She doesn't know if it's wrong or right to enjoy this, but she's powerless to stop it, writhing, twisting as his long tongue sweeps across her skin. Then the rest of her clothes are gone, discarded, kicked away. _Did he do that or did I? _And her hands are lost in that ridiculous blue hair, pulling, grabbing, and she gasps as he finds that one _spot—_the one that has taken every single boyfriend she's ever had _weeks _to find. But he goes there as if she'd drawn a map, and it's all teeth and tongue, hot and flowing, and she cries out when he adds his fingers. Rough insertion, up, curving, sliding, scraping the walls of her body, teasing its ornaments and drawing even louder, involuntary responses from her depths. When he multiplies the force and pressure, she trembles, tense hands gripping his head as he rises. Her tightness clings to him, each opening and closing of the moist muscles around those fingers sending vibrations from her abdomen to her toes.

It should stop then, but it doesn't. She pants, grabs for his waist, but he moves away from her touch. Miki wants him now, is almost desperate for it, and she tries to speak. Of course she won't beg, she'll just…

Her eyes close, head dropping to the side as her body spasms. It _has_ to stop now, but still it doesn't. Miki clenches her teeth, the pleasure of her orgasms now subverted by soreness from the brutality of his movements. Then his thumb pushes against that most sensitive part of her, his nail digging into her. He is making her come again, and it hurts this time. It hurts in a good way, still, but then she climaxes again. And again. There is no logical reason for this. She's possessed, all control over her erotic responses lost to her. Her body twitches, rising, falling, pounding and pulsing until it feels like something bursts within. Still his hand is jammed inside her, still his tongue torments her. And now it _really _hurts, and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She can't speak. Can't protest or scream or cry anymore. Miki moans, and it comes out like a hiss of air, nothing more. _Help…_

Part of her knows it has to be because she is in shock or stunned, but the more irrational part of her brain tells her it is because he doesn't want her to. And she is equally, illogically certain that if he _does_ want her to scream, she will never be able to stop. She would just scream and scream until she lost her voice, or passed out from lack of oxygen. She was wrong. He didn't lose control. He is _always_ in control.

_It hurts…_

Finally he lets her go, sadistic satisfaction etched in the beautiful lines of his face, the creases around his eyes. He regards her blankly, and she can't look at him, too relieved to be released from the torture of her own orgasm. Sliding naked to the floor, still shuddering from the sensory assault, her gaze settles on his crotch, noting his pants are naturally loose once more. _Sick (talented) fuck._

He crouches down, forcing her to meet his eyes. Sore and shocked as she is, Miki won't give him the pleasure of feeling he's taken anything from her. After all, it had been good. For a while.

"Thought you liked it sweet." Her voice is leaving her, but the attitude is still there.

That flawlessly cruel face actually smiles at that, but he says nothing, just shakes his head slightly, the hair she'd mussed moving slightly back and forth over his eyes. Twenty seconds later, she hears the door to the bar click shut.

The next night, Miki curses under her breath as she picks up an empty glass and returns to the bar. _Pickyhotfreakysonofabitch. _Why is the last customer of the night always the biggest pain in the ass?


End file.
